Bound to her enemy

Ruthless warrior Lothar the Frank has laid siege to Castle Haword, but there’s a fiery redhead in his way—and she’s not backing down!

More tomboy than trembling maiden, Lady Juliana Danville would rather die than lose the castle. When she’s caught on opposite sides of a war, a marriage bargain is brokered to bring peace. But is blissful married life possible when Juliana has a dangerous secret hidden within the castle walls?

‘You’re fortunate that I’ve no desire for a wife either. Especially one who looks more like a stablehand than a woman!’

Lothar rubbed his jaw gingerly with his knuckles as Juliana stormed away. In retrospect, he supposed he might have handled the situation better. She was right—their marriage was a greater advancement than any he could have expected—but her accusations had undermined his self-control to the extent that he’d finally lost his temper.

He’d meant to say that he’d accepted the offer because he wanted to help her keep her inheritance—not to steal it for himself. He’d meant to say that he was a soldier—that when it came to managing a castle she was a far better person for the job. He’d meant to reassure her that it would be a marriage in name only, at least insofar as she wanted it to be one. Most of all, he’d meant to tell her that nothing about this was a game.

Instead he’d told her she looked like a stablehand. That had definitely been a mistake.

Author Note

I first became interested in the Empress Matilda as a child, after reading about her escape from Oxford Castle during the siege of 1142, dressed all in white for camouflage in the snow. Unfortunately that story is often all that gets told about a woman whose incredible biography has been largely—and ironically—whitewashed out of history. The daughter and mother of kings, wife of an emperor and then a count, Matilda was a strong woman for any age, and yet she never managed to regain the birthright that was usurped by her cousin Stephen.

Matilda’s problem—as Helen Castor’s brilliant book She-Wolves: The Women Who Ruled England Before Elizabeth points out—was not that she was a woman, but that she was expected to behave like one: to be Queen and yet not assert her own individual authority—a contradiction that the Medieval mindset seemed unable to overcome, and that I find fascinating.

This story, whilst not directly about Matilda, is partly about the roles women were and weren’t allowed to hold in twelfth-century England—four centuries before Elizabeth I came to the throne. Despite my bias, however, I do have a soft spot for Stephen, who was more merciful than the majority of Medieval kings, and did actually pardon some of those who rebelled against him. At a distance of almost nine hundred years, it’s impossible to judge who was the hero and who the villain...but, for the purposes of this story at least, I side with Matilda.

Besieged and Betrothed

Jenni Fletcher

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Jenni Fletcher was born on the north coast of Scotland, and now lives in Yorkshire with her husband and two children. She wanted to be a writer as a child, but got distracted by reading instead, finally writing down her first paragraph thirty years later. She’s had more jobs than she can remember, but has finally found one she loves. She can be contacted via Twitter, @jenniauthor.

Books by Jenni Fletcher

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Married to Her Enemy

The Convenient Felstone Marriage

Besieged and Betrothed

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk.

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To Andy, again, and my family as always (that includes you, Hilary!)

Also a huge thank-you to Kim, Christine, Emma and Sharon, without whose help I’d still only be halfway through.

And to Claudia, who could give any empress a run for her money.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Historical Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Extract

Copyright

Historical Note

In 1147 England had been in the grip of Civil War for twelve years.

The tumultuous period now known as The Anarchy was triggered by the death of Henry I in 1135.

After the drowning of his only legitimate son in the White Ship disaster of 1120, the only direct heir to the throne was Henry’s daughter, Matilda, although at twenty-eight she’d spent comparatively little of her life in England, having been sent abroad at the age of eight to marry the German Emperor Heinrich V. Widowed at twenty-six, she’d then been married to Geoffrey, the young Count of Anjou, with whom she had three sons—the great-grandsons of William the Conqueror.

Henry’s wishes regarding the succession are evidenced by the fact that he made his nobles swear two separate oaths of allegiance to Matilda.

When he died, however, his nephew Stephen travelled immediately to England to have himself crowned King in her place. Unable to leave Anjou due to her third pregnancy, and lacking the support of the nobility, many of whom doubted a woman’s ability to rule, Matilda had to wait another four years before pursuing her claim.

By the time she finally arrived in England Stephen’s grip on power was already too strong to be broken. As a result, her influence was mainly confined to the south-west of the country, with her base in Devizes in Wiltshire. Despite several victories—most notably the Battle of Lincoln—she was unable to gain a definitive upper hand and the power struggle descended into a lengthy and lawless war of attrition.

By 1147, when this story is set, the majority of the fighting was over. Stephen remained the stronger power in England, but had lost the entirety of Normandy to Matilda’s husband. As a result, barons with lands on both sides of the Channel were forced to make peace treaties with both claimants. Most, however, were weary of fighting and simply wanted an end to the war.

In 1153, the ageing Stephen finally agreed to a treaty ceding the throne to Matilda’s eldest son—later Henry II—after his death.

Ultimately Matilda lost the battle but won the war, founding the Plantagenet dynasty that was to rule England for the next three hundred years.

Chapter One

Herefordshire—October 1147

One arrow.

Lothar narrowed his eyes, estimating the distance between him and the woman on the castle ramparts. The wind was in his favour and she was facing in the other direction, wouldn’t hear the rush of the arrow until it was too late. It was an easy shot, an easy target. One arrow to end a four-month-long siege.

If he gave the order.

‘That’s her!’ His companion’s voice was sharp-edged with malice. ‘Lady Juliana. She’s the one holding the castle.’

‘So I assumed.’

‘Then what are you waiting for? Shoot her!’

Lothar turned slowly, fixing the other man with a cool, charcoal-grey stare. He was known for such looks, had forged a steely reputation based on his inscrutable, hard-boiled exterior. The Angoulême soldiers he commanded called him guerrier de fer, ‘iron warrior’, joking that his skin was so thick that he didn’t need armour, that his heart—if he even had one—was buried too deep for any weapon to find it. Most days he didn’t care. His reputation was useful. It kept him safe, made other men reluctant to challenge him. It was the reason Empress Matilda trusted him, why she sent him to clear up the messes caused by other men’s incompetence. But today...

His gaze drifted inexorably back towards the woman on the ramparts, her long, crimson-red hair streaming in the wind like a rippling banner. Today, his companion’s assumption of cold-hearted callousness disturbed him. If he were even half as ruthless as his enemies and most of his friends gave him credit for, he would have given the order already, but he wasn’t so cold-blooded, wasn’t about to shoot an unarmed woman in the back.

On the other hand, it had been two days since he’d had a decent night’s sleep, riding at full pelt from the Empress’s base at Devizes, and he was about ready to shoot someone himself. If Sir Guian de Ravenell didn’t shut up, it would be him.

‘Bring her down!’ The Baron’s impatience was bordering on hysteria. ‘Do it!’

Lothar arched an eyebrow, vaguely surprised that the woman had managed to survive this long with such a voracious wolf at her gates. But then, even a coward like de Ravenell knew that the Empress wouldn’t condone such dishonourable behaviour—which doubtless explained why he was trying to make him give the order.

He rubbed a hand over his face in disgust, over the livid white scar that ran in a diagonal line from the middle of his forehead, half-hidden by a shock of black hair, through his left eyebrow and down to the corner of his jaw. It always throbbed when the weather turned damp and the autumn mizzle was making the whole side of his face ache.

‘You could end the siege right now.’ De Ravenell tried a different tack, trying to sound reasonable. ‘The garrison inside will surrender without her. Her father was loyal to the Empress, but after he died she surrendered and declared for the usurper.’

He felt a momentary disquiet. After a three-month long siege, William Danville had finally chosen to ride out and confront the usurper King Stephen in battle, but his valiant attempt had ended in disaster. His daughter’s subsequent surrender was understandable, though her oath of allegiance to the man whose forces had just killed her father was...surprising.

‘She swore an oath to Stephen straight after the battle?’

‘Before her father was even cold. The girl’s a traitor!’

‘Girl?’ He didn’t bother to hide his scepticism. ‘If she’s held the castle against you for four months then she’s hardly that.’

And as for traitor...

He kept the thought to himself. Between King Stephen and Empress Matilda, two contenders with equally convincing claims to the English throne, it was increasingly difficult to distinguish who was a traitor and who not. Even the Barons seemed to have trouble deciding, given the number whose loyalties seemed to ebb and flow with each passing month. Personally, he had little interest in politics, had his own reasons for serving the Empress, none of which had anything to do with her right to wear the crown. At least Lady Juliana appeared to have a mind of her own. However surprising her decision, she’d chosen her side and stuck to it.

Unfortunately for her, it was the wrong one.

‘Have you tried bargaining with her?’

‘Of course.’ The Baron bristled. ‘I tried negotiating when we first arrived, but she refused my terms.’

‘So you’ve been inside the castle? What are their defences like? How many men does she have?’

‘I’m not certain. That is, not exactly. She came to my tent.’

‘Your tent?’ Lothar narrowed his eyes interrogatively. ‘Whose idea was that?’

‘Mine. I offered her a flag of truce and she accepted.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing.’ The Baron’s gaze slid to one side evasively. ‘She’s a shrew. ’Tis no wonder she’s still unmarried. She wouldn’t listen to reason.’

‘Reason.’

Lothar repeated the word flatly, letting the unspoken accusation hover in the air between them. Over the years he’d come to judge other men on their ability to look him and his scar in the face. Sir Guian de Ravenell most definitely could not. The man’s reputation as a military commander was bad enough, but with women, it was even worse. If Lady Juliana had gone to his tent alone, expecting to negotiate...

A muscle twitched in his jaw. After more than a decade of soldiering, he’d grown accustomed to all kinds of fighting, but violence against women still made his blood boil, stirring up memories he’d spent most of his lifetime trying to forget. Traitor or not, if de Ravenell had done anything to hurt Lady Juliana, the man would need to find his own castle walls to hide behind.

‘She insulted me.’

‘Is that so?’

Lothar restrained his temper with an effort. Whatever she’d said couldn’t be half as bad as the phrases running through his own mind.

‘Have you tried negotiating since?’

‘No. I gave her a chance to surrender. Why should I offer again?’

‘To end the siege, perhaps?’

‘The rules of warfare only oblige me to offer once. She made her choice. Now she can suffer the consequences.’

Lothar ground his teeth, barely resisting the urge to ram a fist in the other man’s face. But the Empress couldn’t afford to lose allies, even ones as ineffectual as de Ravenell. The way her campaign against Stephen was going, she needed every man she could get—and she needed Castle Haword. Modest though it was, the fortress was strategically vital, holding the only bridge over the Wye for thirty miles. Without a safe route across, the Empress’s allies were at potential risk of being encircled, trapped between Stephen’s forces and the river. She needed the bridge, however small it might seem to his eyes, and the sooner the better. That was why he’d come, to end a siege that had dragged on for too long already. Any quarrel he had with Sir Guian would have to wait.

He forced his attention back to the castle. He hated sieges, preferred open warfare to simply waiting. There was nothing honourable about starving an enemy into submission, still less in fighting men too weak to defend themselves, but he had orders to follow. One way or another he intended to take Haword by nightfall the following day. His duty to the Empress came first, no matter what he might think of her orders.

Methodically, he scrutinised the fortifications for weaknesses. Judging by the design, the original motte was old, dating back to before the Conquest, though the Anglo-Saxon timber had been gradually replaced and strengthened with stone. Even so, the work appeared to have been carried out section by section over a period of years, each wall seeming to represent the era in which it was built. The overall effect was an oddly patchwork, ramshackle appearance, but on the whole, the structure looked solid. An assault wouldn’t be easy, but not impossible.

His gaze swept appraisingly back towards the gatehouse and then stilled, arrested by the pair of eyes looking back. He’d been so preoccupied with studying the defences that he hadn’t seen her turn around, but now Lady Juliana was staring straight at him, her face ablaze with a look of such searing, hate-filled defiance that he felt the unfamiliar urge to take a step back.

He took a pace forward instead, claiming even more ground as he waited for her to drop her gaze and turn away, but she didn’t move, didn’t even flinch at the challenge. What had de Ravenell called her—a girl? No, she was no girl, in her early twenties he guessed, though from the look of her, if she didn’t surrender soon, there’d be naught left but a ghost. The rain was heavier now, casting a murky veil over the space between them, but the effects of the siege were all too evident in her emaciated appearance. Her eyes were too big, the shadowy circles around them too dark against her pale skin, her cheekbones too sharply prominent in her narrow face. Yet he could still feel the heat of her gaze, as if she were channelling all that remained of her energy into that one look of defiance, more eloquent than any words. Something about that look, in the determined set of her jaw and her resolute posture, caught his attention and held it. She looked like a Celtic queen, rebellious and undaunted, the long coils of her red hair tumbling loose over the parapet wall in front of her, the only splash of colour against drab, unrelenting grey. For a fleeting moment, he found himself wishing that they were on the same side of the battlements...

He tensed, surprised by a stirring sensation deep in his chest. He’d seen sieges enough to consider himself hardened to their effects, but this woman’s wraithlike appearance disturbed him more than he would have expected. He was accustomed to being the observer, not the observed, used to opponents dropping their eyes in front of him, but she held his gaze like the Empress herself. Standing on the ramparts, windswept and buffeted by the elements, she looked as though she’d rather throw herself into the moat below than concede defeat. He had the distinct impression that she’d stand there as long as it took for him to look away.

Well, he could allow her that victory at least.

‘So you have a girl holding the castle.’ He rounded on de Ravenell. ‘Yet you never thought to attack? You have two siege engines. Why haven’t you used them?’

‘I saw no point risking men in an assault.’ The Baron looked taken aback. ‘A siege was the safest approach.’

‘Under normal circumstances I’d agree, but you were ordered to secure the castle by the fastest means possible.’

‘She can’t hold out much longer.’

‘That’s still too long for the Empress. Where are your trenches?’

‘My...what?’

‘Tunnels. Have you tried to dig under their walls?’

‘The moat’s too wide!’

‘You’ve had four months. You could have dug a tunnel all the way under the river by now.’

‘How dare you?’ the Baron spluttered angrily. ‘I’ve done everything that could possibly be expected of me. The Empress knows me and my abilities. Who are you? Nothing but an ill-bred, peasant upstart!’

Lothar’s expression didn’t waver. He knew well enough what Matilda’s high-born supporters called him behind his back, though he rarely met one foolish enough to say the same to his face. When the time came, he’d have more than one score to settle with Sir Guian de Ravenell. He was starting to look forward to it.

‘I’m the peasant upstart sent to finish your job,’ he countered smoothly, ‘but you’re right, the Empress knows all about your abilities. That’s why I’m here.’

The Baron puffed his cheeks out and then seemed to deflate suddenly. ‘Well, I don’t see what can be done about it now.’

‘Then let me tell you.’ Lothar gestured towards a range of oaks on a nearby hillside. ‘First, you’re going to order your men to cut down those trees. Second, you’re going to have them build a bridge and battering ram. Third, you’re going to attack.’

‘What? When?’

‘Dawn tomorrow.’

‘But we can’t! Even if we manage to cross the moat, the walls are too steep. We can’t possibly scale them.’

‘Then you’ll need to build ladders as well.’ Lothar gave a cynical half-smile. ‘Don’t worry, Sir Guian, you’ll still get your chance to impress the Empress. You’ll be the one leading the assault.’

He turned on his heel abruptly, calling out orders to his soldiers as de Ravenell gawped after him. In truth, he had absolutely no intention of letting the man lead anything, but the look of horror on his face was a small form of revenge, the very least he could do for Lady Juliana.

Had she noticed? He stole another glance up at the battlements, but she was staring past him, out into the distance as if she were searching for something. Help most likely, though if she were waiting for Stephen then she’d be waiting a long time. He narrowed his eyes as he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows behind her. The glint of an arrow, the distinctive curve of a bow... His lips curled upwards appreciatively. It seemed that Lady Juliana wasn’t quite the easy target he’d taken her for. Her archer must have been there all along, guarding her back the whole time de Ravenell had been urging him to shoot. Not bad for a girl. She might make a worthy opponent after all.

He came to a halt finally, taking up a position opposite the gatehouse. This was the newest part of the castle, twenty feet high, with a heavy oak drawbridge and sloped walls at the base to deter an assault. It would be madness to launch an attack from here, but a battering ram would keep the castle garrison diverted whilst he led an assault from the river, the side that they wouldn’t expect.

If it came to it, though he’d try a different approach first, one his own code of honour demanded. Would she listen to him? For her own sake, and for reasons he didn’t even understand himself, he hoped so.

‘Lady Juliana?’ he called up to the battlements, his deep voice reverberating loudly off the thick, stone walls. ‘Empress Matilda sends greetings.’

Chapter Two

Lady Juliana Danville leant over the parapet wall and let loose a volley of unladylike sentiments. If she’d learnt anything during her brief tenure as chatelaine, it was a far more colourful vocabulary than that of a typical Earl’s daughter, even for one who’d grown up with only a father and soldiers for company. She didn’t use the words very often, but looking down at the raven-haired stranger below, she couldn’t think of anything more fitting to say.

‘My lady?’ The archer behind her sounded shocked.

‘Oh... Sorry, Edgar. Nothing.’

She bit her tongue, her whole attention absorbed in the scene of activity below. Since the stranger’s arrival an hour before, the whole atmosphere of the enemy camp seemed to have changed, become seized with a new sense of energy and purpose, so that the air itself now seemed to crackle and hum with tension.

Why? She narrowed her gaze as if his appearance alone might somehow reveal the answer. Who was he?

He was talking to de Ravenell, apparently about the castle, though his face displayed no more emotion than if they were simply discussing the weather. He looked forbidding and yet, she had to admit, ruggedly handsome, too, with strong, chiselled features marred only by a pale scar running like a streak of white lightning down one side of his face. Dressed entirely in black, with his hair cropped shorter than most noblemen’s, he dominated the older man with an air of effortless, imposing authority. Whatever they were talking about, one thing was obvious. The Baron was no longer in charge.

She gave an involuntary shudder. A thin morning mist still hung in the air and it was starting to rain, a lowering drizzle that made her wish she’d stopped to pick up a cloak in her haste to reach the battlements. She’d been asleep in a chair, dozing fitfully after yet another restless night when a guard had brought word of the developments outside. She hadn’t even stopped to tie up her hair or put on a headdress, and now her linen tunic offered scant protection against the elements. She’d acted impulsively, as usual, and the last thing she needed was to fall ill. If anything happened to her, what would happen to Castle Haword and all its inhabitants then?

On the other hand, she doubted she’d have time to get sick. Whoever the new arrival was, he didn’t look like a man who waited for things to happen. He looked like someone who made them. She’d been confident of holding the castle against a coward like de Ravenell, but this stranger was a whole different prospect. Even with a moat and stone wall between them, there was something unnerving about him, a kind of disconcerting restraint in his manner, as if he were holding some part of himself back, some intangible, inscrutable darkness. Something dangerous.

She clenched her fingers over the parapet wall so tightly that her knuckles turned white, channelling the full force of her fear and defiance into one savage glare. What now, she wanted to scream at the assembled forces below, what did they want this time? Hadn’t Haword suffered enough? It was hard to remember a time when they hadn’t been beset by one enemy or another. Two sieges in one year was more than enough for one castle to cope with! Never mind everything else! All she, all anyone in their right mind, wanted was for the war to be over and for there to be peace again, but the power struggle between Stephen and Matilda seemed no closer to finding a resolution. After twelve long years of fighting, more than half of her lifetime, she hardly cared who wore the crown any more. Bad enough that her home was caught in the middle, but now the Empress sent this fresh foe against them!

The stranger met her gaze suddenly and she saw a fleeting look of surprise sweep over his features and then vanish, like the faintest ripple of air across a still pond. It was so quick that she almost thought she must have imagined it. A split second later and he was completely expressionless again, more like a statue than a man of flesh and blood, hard as stone and just as unyielding. She felt an ice-cold frisson of fear, sharp and piercing like the tip of a blade, slide inexorably down the length of her spine. The siege was over. Somehow she’d known that the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. This man wasn’t simply going to wait for the castle to fall. He was going to take it. Unless she stopped him.

He dropped his gaze and she felt a brief flicker of triumph, quickly extinguished as he started around the edge of the moat, his long, purposeful strides curving ever closer towards the gatehouse. What was he doing? She held her breath nervously. Was he coming to talk or to threaten her? Either way, she’d only come up to the battlements to see what was happening. She wasn’t ready to confront him, not now, not yet! She wasn’t properly attired, wasn’t even wearing a headdress—and she had the very definite impression that neither excuse was likely to sway him.

Desperately she scoured the horizon for reinforcements she already knew weren’t coming, at least not in time. She’d sent word to Stephen months ago at the very start of the siege, but had received no response until just a week before, a brief message smuggled in from the river at night saying that he was heading west, that he intended to reach Haword in another fortnight; reminding her of the debt she owed him, telling her to hold the bridge.

If it were only that easy! She fought against a rising tide of panic. She’d held it so far, had made sure the castle was prepared for a long siege, with food and water enough to last another month if they were careful. But if it came to a fight...

She glanced over her shoulder, into the bailey at the fifty or so men who were depending upon her to lead them. She didn’t doubt their loyalty, no matter what they might privately think of her change of allegiance from Matilda to Stephen, but they were hungry, exhausted and outnumbered, hardly in any fit state for combat. How could she expect them to fight? How could she expect them to win? Loathe as she was to admit it, if the castle walls were breached then they were doomed. If the stranger’s fearsome appearance were anything to go by, he’d forgotten more about warfare than she’d ever known. He had the look of a man who knew little else.

Damn it! She swore under her breath as he came to a halt directly beneath her. Why now? Why had he arrived now? After four long months of waiting for Stephen to rescue them, all she needed was one more week!

‘Lady Juliana?’ The stranger hailed her in an accent she didn’t recognise. ‘Empress Matilda sends greetings. Will you discuss terms?’

For a stunned moment she thought she’d misheard him. A besieging army usually offered terms only once, were under no obligation to do so again. After that, if the castle fell, its inhabitants and their possessions became fair game. She’d already been to negotiate terms with de Ravenell at the start of the siege, venturing out under a flag of truce that had failed to provide any protection whatsoever. She’d told him exactly what he could do with his terms, though her mind shied away from the memory of that encounter. She certainly wasn’t going to trust one of the Empress’s men so easily again.

And yet...unbelievable as it seemed, this stranger was actually offering her a second chance, probably a last chance to save her men if the castle fell. No matter what her debt to Stephen, how could she refuse such an offer? Besides which, he’d definitely said terms, not surrender. The word gave her hope. If the Empress was prepared to open negotiations again then surely it meant she had some new offer, something besides outright surrender, something that might buy them some time?

‘Lady Juliana?’

The stranger repeated her name and she gave a start, realising that she still hadn’t answered.

‘I’m Lady Juliana.’

‘Are you willing to discuss terms or not, my lady?’

His voice sounded devoid of emotion and for a moment she was tempted to throw the offer back in his face just to see a response. He even looked like a statue, she thought resentfully, as if he hardly cared how she answered. Probably he didn’t. Whether she agreed to negotiate or not likely meant nothing to him, but if she refused then she’d be risking more than just the bridge. She’d be risking the lives of everyone inside the castle and she couldn’t do that. She was the one who’d got them into this position and she was the one who had to find a way out—had to hear what the Empress was offering at least.

‘Stay there!’

She whirled away from the parapet, hauling her tunic up to her knees as she raced down the tower steps, moving quickly so she wouldn’t have time to reconsider. If she were going to discuss terms—if—she needed to speak with him face-to-face, needed to look into his eyes to see if she could trust him first.

‘Prepare to lower the drawbridge!’ she called out to the door warden from the stairwell.

‘Lady Juliana!’ Her Constable, Ulf, seemed to appear out of nowhere, scowling from beneath a thatch of unruly white hair. ‘You can’t go outside.’

‘Only on to the drawbridge.’

‘I have to protest.’ He followed after her as she dodged around him. ‘It’s too risky.’

‘I won’t go far.’

‘He looks dangerous.’

She made a non-committal sound. She could hardly disagree with that, but she wasn’t about to admit it either. She’d no intention of being intimidated by any man, either the stranger or her Constable.

‘He won’t hurt me while he’s wearing the Empress’s crest.’ She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. ‘You can aim as many weapons at him as you like, just don’t shoot unless you have to.’

‘I still have to protest...’

‘It’s not your decision, it’s mine! I’m the chatelaine, aren’t I?’

‘Yes, my lady...’

‘Then it’s my choice, isn’t it?’

The Constable sighed. ‘As you wish, my lady, if you’re certain.’

‘I am.’ She made a swift gesture to the door warden, steeling her nerve as the heavy oak drawbridge creaked reluctantly and then started to descend.

‘I’ll be watching, my lady.’

‘I know you will, Ulf.’ She took up a position under the archway and threw a conciliatory look over her shoulder. ‘I do appreciate your concern, but this won’t take long. I’m only going to find out what he wants, that’s all.’

She turned around again, ardently hoping that she was telling the truth.

Chapter Three

Juliana took a second look at the stranger and decided that she’d changed her mind. He was standing exactly where she’d last seen him on the far side of the moat, immense and foreboding, the very intensity of his gaze seeming to bore a hole through the mist between them.

A mistake. She caught her breath unsteadily. This had definitely been a mistake. Outside the protection of the castle walls she felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable, like a roe deer being stalked by a wolf. If this man were truly as dangerous as he looked, then she wouldn’t stand a chance. Ulf was right. It was too risky... That thought alone gave her courage. If she turned and fled now, then she might as well admit that she wasn’t strong enough to be chatelaine in her own right, without a father or husband or any other man to guide or protect her. And there was no chance in hell that she was going to do that.

She took a tentative step forward and the stranger did the same, mirroring each of her movements until they met, barely an arm’s length apart, in the centre.

‘Lady Juliana.’

He inclined his head and she dug her heels into the wooden planks beneath her feet, resisting the urge to back down, heart thumping so loudly she was sure his whole army must be able to hear it. She was reasonably tall for a woman, but he towered a full head above her, even bigger and broader than he’d seemed from the battlements, his shoulders so wide they seemed to obscure her view of the enemy camp behind. His stern expression was more forbidding, too, though he was also younger than she’d expected, probably no more than thirty, closer to her own age than de Ravenell’s. That fact made her even more nervous. They were as good as alone, out of earshot of her men, so close that she could smell the musky scent of leather and sweat on his skin, could feel the heat radiating from his broad chest, could see it rising and falling just inches from hers...

Her legs trembled unsteadily and she dropped into a token curtsy, glad of the opportunity to lower her gaze, if only for a moment. Everything about him felt overpowering, and the last thing she wanted was for him to guess how strongly he was affecting her.

‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir.’ She straightened up again, lifting her chin in the air defiantly. ‘You know who I am, but who are you?’

‘My name is Lothar, my lady.’

‘Just Lothar?’

‘Some call me the Frank.’

‘You’re from Francia?’

She tilted her head to one side, but the expression on his face didn’t encourage further questions. If anything, he looked even more severe. Well, at least that explained his accent... She cleared her throat hastily.

‘You said you’ve brought terms, Sir Lothar?’

‘Just Lothar. I’m not a knight.’

‘You’re not?’ She blinked in surprise. From his authoritative manner, she’d assumed that he was a baron at least, but now he mentioned it, she noticed that he wasn’t dressed any differently from the rest of his soldiers in a dark leather surcoat, black tunic, black hose and knee-length riding boots. But if he wasn’t a knight... She stiffened indignantly.

‘Is this a joke?’

‘In what way?’

‘Is the Empress trying to insult me by sending a soldier to negotiate?’

‘A sergeant,’ he corrected her, ‘and no insult, at least none that I’m aware of. The Empress simply thought that Sir Guian was in need of a rest. Unless you prefer to deal with him?’

‘No!’

She bit her lip, inwardly rebuking herself for answering too quickly. De Ravenell was the last person in the world she wanted to deal with, but she’d no intention of telling this man anything about why.

‘My lady?’ His grey gaze seemed to flicker briefly.

‘I mean, you’re here now. We might as well continue.’ She tossed her head. ‘Do you have the authority to discuss terms?’

‘I do.’

‘Then tell me, Sergeant, what exactly is the Empress offering?’

‘A last chance. If you surrender the castle today, you and your men will be spared.’

‘Surrender?’ Her attempt at composure crumbled at once. ‘You said you were here to discuss terms!’

‘I am. Those are better than you might expect.’

‘They’re the same as four months ago!’

‘As I said, better than you might expect.’

‘But...’

She heard the crack in her own voice. As much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Under the circumstances, they were the best terms she could possibly hope for. The Empress was under no obligation to offer anything at all. If this man wanted, he could simply storm the walls, capture the bridge and ransack the castle. She didn’t doubt that he could, but an outright surrender? Until that moment, she hadn’t let herself even acknowledge the possibility. If she surrendered now then she’d be failing Stephen just when he needed her, after she’d given him her word, her promise, to hold the bridge no matter what. What would he think of her if she gave up now? How else would she ever repay her debt?

‘And if I refuse?’ She tried to stay calm. ‘What then?’

‘Then the result will be the same. The castle will fall tomorrow and the normal rules of war will apply.’ He paused significantly. ‘Do you understand what that means?’

‘We can defend ourselves.’

‘No. You cannot.’

She caught her breath, fighting the urge to turn tail and run, to flee back inside the castle and hide. She didn’t want to believe him, but something told her she couldn’t simply hide from this man, couldn’t rely on the protection of cold, stone walls. She had a feeling that he’d smash straight through.

‘Then I’ll destroy the bridge.’ She pressed her hands together so that he couldn’t see them trembling. ‘If you try to take the castle by force, I’ll order my men to drop missiles over the walls. We have boulders ready inside. Haword will be worthless to you then.’

‘True.’

‘Then I mean it! If you attack, then I’ll give the order.’

‘I believe you, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’ His voice was just as cold and expressionless as the rest of him. ‘Stephen wants the bridge as much as the Empress does. If you destroy it, I doubt either one of them will be pleased.’

‘He’ll understand.’

‘Perhaps, but what about de Ravenell’s soldiers? They’ve been camped here for months. Do you think they’ll simply give up their chance to pillage once you remove the only cause for restraint?’

She stared at him, aghast. ‘But why would they still risk attacking us? We’ve nothing of any value. I’ll give them anything they want to go away.’

‘Such as yourself?’ He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if he were sharing some secret too intimate to be said aloud. ‘Men have other motives beside greed and revenge, my lady.’

She gasped before she could stop herself. His breath was warm on her cheek, but his words were chilling. She couldn’t deny the truth of them, though she had the distinct impression that he was trying to intimidate her, to frighten her into submission.

‘When do you want an answer?’

‘You have one hour.’

‘One hour?’

‘You’ve had enough time to think, my lady.’

‘Not about this!’

She staggered backwards, appalled. She needed more than one hour! How could he possibly expect her to make such a momentous decision so quickly? It was no time at all! On the other hand, what choice did she really have? If she wanted to save her men, there was only one thing she could do.

He gave a terse nod, as if he knew it, too. ‘I’ll be back in one hour. No longer.’

She stared at him bleakly. That gave her an hour to make ready, to speak to her men, to tell them to lay down their weapons and hide their valuables as best as they could. If only she could hide the truth about her bargain with Stephen, too, but that was impossible. Once this man took possession of Castle Haword he’d find out exactly what she’d done to keep it. And when he did, he’d likely turn her over to the Empress himself.

Unless... She inhaled sharply, half-alarmed, half-exhilarated by a new idea. Unless she stopped him right now, never gave him the chance to order an assault. Unless she took him prisoner instead!

She bit her lip, struggling to keep her expression calm, gripped by a heady blend of excitement and fear. If she took him prisoner, then in all likelihood de Ravenell would remain in charge and the siege would go on as before. It might not stop an assault in the long run, but it might stall it long enough for Stephen to arrive with reinforcements.

But how could she do it? Her mind raced to formulate a plan. She wouldn’t be able to overpower him on her own, that was obvious, and if she didn’t want to risk any of her men, then she’d have to use another, more insidious means of subduing him. That was if she could persuade him to enter the castle in the first place, and how could she do that? There was only one possible method that sprang to mind, though the very idea filled her with horror—a means of entrapping him, too, if she only had nerve enough to try it. If she flirted with him, made him believe that she wanted more than simply to negotiate, that she had a private, ulterior, personal motive for inviting him inside the castle walls...would he follow her then?

She felt her cheeks flood with colour and castigated herself inwardly. How could she possibly pretend to seduce him if she couldn’t even imagine such a thing without blushing? Beside the fact that she’d never flirted with a man in her life, hardly knew where to begin. Everything she knew she’d learned from overheard snatches of gossip, from watching other people, never participating herself. Her father had made it clear what would happen if any of his men ever dared to so much as glance at her in that way. Not that any ever had. They’d always viewed her in the same way he did—as an honorary man. Certainly never as a woman...

Her heart sank. How could somebody like her possibly hope to tempt someone like this warrior? She had no idea what to say, let alone how to act! What if she did it wrong? Bad enough that she was already damp and bedraggled, and he looked like the kind of man who’d be accustomed to plenty of female attention. If he rejected, or even worse, laughed at her, she’d be mortified. It was a ridiculous idea, too demeaning to contemplate, and yet she had to do something, no matter how potentially humiliating. He was already turning away. If she were going to act, it had to be now.

‘Lothar!’ She called his name out impulsively.

‘Lady Juliana?’ He looked back over his shoulder, though he didn’t turn around.

‘I don’t need an hour. I’ll surrender now.’

‘Now?’

She nodded, trying to look as innocent as possible as he turned slowly back again, his expression as unreadable as ever. What was he thinking? She ran her tongue along her lips to moisten them, struck by a fresh wave of panic. How could she possibly hope to seduce this man of all men? He seemed to have no emotions at all. Surely a statue would be easier! But it was too late to retreat. If she were going to protect her men and keep her promise to Stephen, then this was the only way. At the very least, she had to try. And she was a woman after all, no matter what everyone else seemed to think. There had to be something feminine about her, something that might tempt him. Sir Guian had certainly thought so.

She licked her lips again, fluttering her eyelashes in the way she’d seen the castle maids act around her soldiers.

‘Why don’t you come inside so we can talk?’

* * *

‘You want me to come inside?’ Lothar repeated the question to make sure he hadn’t misheard.

‘Why not?’ Lady Juliana tossed her head, sending a cascade of wet ringlets tumbling over one shoulder. ‘So we can discuss terms.’

That settled it. That time he definitely hadn’t imagined the coy tilt of her head or the glint in those luminous green eyes. For an alarming moment, he thought he’d let his imagination run away with him, distracted by the way her damp dress was clinging to her body in all the right places. But, no, unlikely as it seemed, she was actually batting her eyelashes at him—dark lashes so lush and long they seemed to be catching raindrops on the tips.

‘Perhaps you’d care for some refreshment?’

Her voice sounded low and breathy all of a sudden, almost a purr, and he arched an eyebrow before he could stop himself. Normally he prided himself on never being caught off guard by an opponent, but the abrupt change in her demeanour took even him by surprise. He’d known enough women to know when one was flirting with him.

And when one was pretending.

He studied her for a moment, trying to work out what she was doing. He didn’t know quite what he’d expected, but she was nothing like the duplicitous shrew Sir Guian had described. Nothing like her father either, except for her eyes. They were the same shade of vivid jade-green, shining with the same spark of intelligence, too. The similarity had disturbed him at first, as if he’d actually been looking into the eyes of his dead friend, though the longer he’d looked at the daughter, the more he’d become aware of the innocence beneath the defiant façade. He’d been deliberately harsh when he’d spoken to her, trying to intimidate her into surrender, though he’d done nothing but tell the blunt truth. It was a tried and tested tactic, one that usually worked, too, even if he’d felt strangely uncomfortable using it on her, as if he’d been doing something wrong. He hadn’t wanted to intimidate her, even for her own good, though why she was different from any other opponent he had no idea.

He thought he’d been on the verge of success, too, had seen the unmistakable look of defeat in her eyes just a few moments before, quickly followed by something else, a flash of nervous excitement that she was trying too hard to conceal. And now she was playing the part of seductress, though her lack of experience was obvious. Try as she might, she couldn’t hide the uncertainty behind her eyes or the heat in her skin—the vivid pink blush spreading all the way up from the throat of her gown to the very roots of her hair. Judging by the way her fingers were toying nervously with the ends of her belt, he suspected it was the first time she’d flirted with anyone. The idea was unexpectedly appealing. If it weren’t for the hint of fear behind her forced smile, he might be tempted to find out just how far her blushes spread...

‘You should take the time to consider, my lady.’

‘You don’t want me to surrender?’

She opened her eyes wide and he felt a stirring in his loins, quickly suppressed. For someone so obviously new to the role of temptress, she was surprisingly good at it. She was watching him intently, biting her bottom lip between even, white teeth, though he suspected it was more of a nervous gesture than one designed to entice him. Even so, the effect was surprisingly potent.

‘Surrender?’ He lowered his voice huskily, responding in kind. Did she even know what she was suggesting?

She gave a low murmur, something that sounded like agreement, before spinning on her heel and throwing a beckoning glance over her shoulder.

‘Shall we discuss it inside? Out of the rain?’

He watched her go with regret, his gaze lingering on the way her red hair swung loosely against her slender hips and pert behind as she sauntered slowly back along the bridge. It was a shame she was only pretending, otherwise... He fought to bring his mind, not to mention his body, back under control. This was neither the time nor the place for such distractions, but there was something unusually winsome about her. It certainly wasn’t the way she was dressed. Her drab brown tunic didn’t do her justice at all. A Celtic queen ought to be decked out in jewels—emeralds to match her eyes or rubies to complement her hair. Maybe even gold... He frowned, surprised by the direction of his own thoughts. Since when did he care what women wore? Since when did he notice?

He glanced past her, through the arch of the gatehouse into the bailey beyond. It was a trap. No enemy turned from hate-filled defiance to willing surrender so quickly. She was trying to lure him into the castle, but why? To shoot him? No, if she intended that then she could have given the order from the battlements. More likely she was planning something else, some last-ditch, desperate attempt to take him prisoner—but how would she do it? If the idea had only just occurred to her, as he was almost certain it had, then she was probably making up a plan as she went along. She couldn’t order her men to seize him straight away, not whilst he was still armed and with the drawbridge still lowered behind them, providing a possible route of escape. In which case, she’d need to draw him further into the castle, probably into the keep, and if she wanted to avoid bloodshed then she’d need to hold her men off, too...then find some other way to disarm him.

He’d like to see her try. She had nerve, he’d give her that, but how far would nerve take her? Apart from his sword, he had a dagger in his gambeson and a seax in his boot, not to mention assorted poignards concealed about his person. She’d have to undress him completely to find all of them and he’d definitely like to see that.

On the other hand, what would happen if he didn’t follow her? If he ignored her invitation and walked away, would she still be willing to surrender the castle in an hour? She didn’t strike him as foolhardy, but she’d already proven somewhat unpredictable. If she refused his terms then he’d have no choice but to launch an attack, and then all hell could, and most likely would, break loose. Whereas if he went with her, if he pretended to accept her offer, then he’d still stand a chance of convincing her. If she didn’t throw him into a dungeon first...

He stole a fresh glance at the fortifications. The castle would make a reasonably effective prison, though not inescapable, and she’d have to catch him first. He hadn’t met an opponent who could outwit him yet and he had no intention of starting now. All he had to do was stay one step ahead. In the meantime, the thought of a warm hearth and some female companionship was distinctly appealing. He’d barely had a chance to breathe over the past few months, either fighting or riding between skirmishes on the Empress’s behalf. A brief rest, even with a woman who was trying to entrap him, would make an interesting change, and if by some unlikely chance she succeeded...well, he trusted his men to carry out his orders, no matter what. The attack would go ahead tomorrow as planned, whether he was there to lead it or not. There was no risk to the Empress’s plans, only to him—and he was expendable.

‘Are you coming?’

He looked down again. Lady Juliana was standing on the very edge of the drawbridge, the sultry timbre of her voice replaced by a nervous quaver that was somehow more powerful than all the fluttering eyelashes in the world put together. He felt a tug in his chest as if she were actually pulling him after her. She looked worried and he felt strangely reluctant to disappoint her. Not that it made any sense. She was a siren trying to lure him into a trap. He ought to stuff up his ears, walk away and leave his ultimatum as it stood—let her surrender in an hour or face an assault at dawn. That was what he ought to do, what his men, not to mention the Empress, would expect him to do. Except that he found it utterly impossible to do so.

He looked down at his feet, vaguely surprised to find them already moving, following behind her like a dog after its mistress. Damn it all, it was a trap, most definitely a trap, but at least he’d go in with his eyes open.

‘Welcome to Castle Haword, Lothar.’ She gave another coy smile, unable to hide completely her look of relief.

‘Lead on, Lady Juliana.’

He rested a hand on his sword hilt, resigning himself to his fate as he followed her under the portcullis and through the great archway. Whatever she intended, it ought to be entertaining at least. Not to mention a far more agreeable way of passing the evening than with de Ravenell. If nothing else, he was interested to see just how far her pretence of seduction would go. He’d no interest in frightening or deflowering maidens, but if she thought she could manipulate him so easily then he’d be sure to give her a lot more than she’d bargained for.

His lips curved in a slow, anticipatory smile. By morning, he fully intended to have both castle and woman exactly where he wanted them.

Chapter Four

Juliana pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to quell the feeling that she was about to be sick.

What was she doing? Her legs were shaking so violently that she didn’t know if she felt elated or terrified or both. Had that really been her, flirting so shamelessly with an enemy warrior in full view of the castle walls? She didn’t know where the words had come from, but amazingly her siren’s performance actually seemed to have worked. Deep down she hadn’t really thought that it would, yet there he was at her shoulder, following her into the bailey like just another one of her soldiers. She only hoped that disarming him would be so easy.

She hauled in a few deep breaths, making a conscious effort to swing her hips as she walked. If brazen was what he wanted, then brazen was what he’d get. Up to a point anyway. She’d led him to expect... Her courage baulked at the thought of what she’d led him to expect. She wasn’t even completely sure what it was, but she was a lady. There was only so far a lady could be expected to go. Wasn’t there?

She threw a quick glance over her shoulder and then wished that she hadn’t. Of all the soldiers in the Empress’s army, she doubted she could have found a more intimidating prospect. With his broad shoulders, Lothar put her in mind of a battering ram, though surely a battering ram would show more emotion. If he was remotely concerned about entering the castle on his own, he didn’t show it. On the contrary, his confident stride suggested Haword was already his for the taking. Well, it wasn’t, not yet. It was still hers, though if her plan failed, she might as well unleash a wild animal in the bailey herself. What would happen if he guessed her deception? How many men would it take to restrain him? More than she was willing to risk.

‘My lady?’ Ulf stepped out in front of them and her hopes plummeted at once.

‘Constable.’ She shot him a warning look. ‘This is Sergeant Lothar, the Empress’s envoy. He and I will be taking refreshments together in the hall.’

‘Then I’ll accompany you, my lady.’

‘That won’t be necessary, thank you. We have a great deal to discuss. In private.’

‘It isn’t seemly...’

‘Please see to it that we’re not disturbed.’ She spoke over him, jutting her chin out as his expression darkened mutinously.

‘He ought to surrender his weapons.’

‘Constable, you insult our guest!’

She whirled around, though to her relief their guest didn’t look remotely offended.

‘Not at all.’ Lothar shrugged, though his stony gaze rested on Ulf a little too keenly for her liking. ‘It’s a reasonable request. Though there’s only one of me and...’ he glanced nonchalantly around the bailey ‘...around fifty of you? Surely you aren’t afraid of those odds?’

‘Under the terms of a truce, it’s customary to leave your weapons outside.’

‘If this were a truce I’d agree, but I don’t recall anyone uttering the word.’ He quirked an eyebrow towards her. ‘Did you, my lady?’

‘I’m mentioning it now.’ Ulf’s tone was belligerent.

‘Did you, Lady Juliana?’ Lothar ignored him, his voice dropping to an intimate undertone. ‘Perhaps when I was distracted?’

She inhaled sharply, taken aback as much by the deep, honeyed tone of his voice as by the fact that he actually seemed to be smiling. The effect was unexpectedly disarming, like the sun bursting out from between storm clouds. For a fleeting moment, his stern features were utterly transformed, still rugged and yet even more strikingly handsome. He looked more like a knight from some chivalric romance than an enemy warrior, a man she might truly be tempted by...

She tore her gaze away, alarmed by the thought. That was impossible. She could never be drawn to such a cold-blooded, fearsome-looking warrior. It was only her fear confusing her, not him. Definitely not him.

‘Our guest may do as he pleases.’ She spoke with as much authority as she could muster. She had the distinct impression that Lothar was deliberately trying to provoke her Constable, and her Constable was letting him. If she wasn’t careful there’d be bloodshed before they even made it past the gatehouse.

‘There’s no truce, just...’ she groped for a suitable word, ‘an understanding.’

‘But, my lady...’

‘Stand down, Ulf!’ She held his gaze until he stepped begrudgingly to one side, then gestured towards Lothar. ‘Shall we?’

She didn’t wait for an answer, marching ahead as quickly as she dared without making him suspicious. It was approaching noon and the castle cooks were busy making the best of their meagre rations, doling out bowls of pottage to a line of soldiers waiting outside the kitchens. She winced as they passed. She hadn’t wanted Lothar to see that. Bad enough that he could already see the full extent of their defences, but now he could see the condition of her men, too. If he did somehow manage to escape, there’d be no stopping him.

They reached the steps of the keep and she pushed on the door with a sense of relief, glad to be out of sight of her soldiers at last. Judging by their shocked expressions, they were just as scandalised by her behaviour as Ulf. Well, they’d just have to think what they liked. She could explain herself—and accept their apologies—later. If her plan worked, that was. Otherwise...

She pushed her misgivings aside, sweeping through the antechamber and on into the hall, her eyes turning at once towards a chest in the far corner. It was where she stored what was left of the wine, as well as other more potent substances in a small wooden box, the key of which she always kept tied to her belt. She wrapped her fingers around it now, gripping the metal tightly as she made her way across the room. Now if she could just open the box, pour the wine and mix one of her remedies into it without him noticing...

She heard a loud scraping sound and spun around, letting out an involuntarily squeak of alarm as she saw her companion draw the last of the iron door bolts.

‘So we’re not disturbed.’ Lothar sauntered towards her. ‘Though I’d lay good money on your Constable being right outside.’

Her throat tightened. Locked in! Despite what she’d said, it hadn’t occurred to her that he might do anything to ensure they weren’t disturbed. She had no doubt that her soldiers were close by, but if she called for help now, it would take precious minutes for them to break through. Not that she needed any help, she reminded herself. She was the chatelaine and she’d come this far by herself. She’d work out the rest, too. She had to.

‘Of course.’ She forced a smile, gesturing casually towards the hearth. ‘Won’t you make yourself comfortable?’

She turned her back on him again, unlocking the box and extracting a small leather pouch, taking deep breaths to stay calm. It was only a door after all, and if—when—her plan worked then she wouldn’t even need an escape route. She just had to concentrate, had to pour two cups of wine and mix the poppy milk carefully, get the measurements just right and make sure there was no residue left behind. And she had to hurry. She could already hear the tread of his footsteps crossing the flagstones, the swoosh of his surcoat as he cast it aside, the metallic chink of his chainmail... Chainmail? Her stomach swooped. What was he doing with his chainmail?

She clasped a cup in each hand and moved haltingly towards him. To her horror, she saw that he’d already removed both his surcoat and chainmail, leaving only his undershirt, hose and leather boots.

‘They were wet.’ He jerked his head towards the discarded pile of clothing.

‘Your chainmail was wet?’ Her voice seemed to have become alarmingly high-pitched.

‘You’d be surprised at how heavy it gets in the rain. You should get out of those damp clothes, too.’

She stiffened instinctively before remembering to turn her look of affront into a smile. After all, she was supposed to be flirting with him. This was supposed to be her idea. It was ridiculous to be offended, no matter how insolent he was.

‘There’s no rush.’ She tried her best to sound playful. ‘You wouldn’t want me to surrender too easily, would you?’

His gaze flickered down to her legs before travelling leisurely up again. ‘Forgive me, Lady Juliana, but I was under the impression that you already had.’

She caught her breath, every part of her body tingling where his gaze touched her. He was right about her clothes being wet. She hadn’t thought about it before, but they were moulded so closely to her skin that he could surely see every curve of her body. Not that she had many of those, but she might as well have been naked for all the protection her tunic was giving her. Her mouth turned dry at the thought. Now that his warrior’s face was finally showing some sign of emotion she wished it wasn’t. She wished he was a statue again. He was looking at her in a way that suggested he wanted more, far more, than just a drink.

‘Some wine?’ She held the laced cup out towards him. ‘I offered you some refreshment.’

‘I don’t drink wine.’

His voice hardened abruptly, as if she’d just insulted him instead of having offered a drink, and she froze in panic. Had he seen through her deception already, then? Was that why he’d locked the door? She felt her hands break out in a cold sweat and her scalp tighten with dread. If he didn’t drink, then she’d have no chance of overpowering him. What would happen then? What would he do to her?

She licked her lips to loosen them, pretending not to notice the frosty shift in his demeanour. ‘It’s from one of my father’s best casks, for special occasions only. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’

‘Taste has nothing to do with it. I don’t drink anything stronger than ale.’ Black brows drew together in a fierce line and then suddenly softened again. ‘But perhaps just this once. Since we’re celebrating.’

He reached for the cup with one hand and caught her fingers in the other, lifting them gently to his lips as her heart seemed to stop and then accelerate again wildly. Alone in a locked room, somehow the gesture felt more intimate than if he’d actually pulled her into his arms. His lips felt surprisingly soft and warm, brushing her knuckles with just the lightest of pressures, and yet somehow making the whole of her insides start to quiver.

It was fear, she reminded herself, fear making her body react in such a new and alarming fashion, as if she were losing control of her senses. In the flickering firelight, his eyes looked more purple than grey, shimmering amethysts rather than hard granite stones, pinning her to the spot with such compelling intensity that she hardly dared breathe, let alone blink...

On the other hand, the still rational part of her brain argued, at least while he was looking at her he wasn’t looking at the wine, wouldn’t notice any residue left inside. She was halfway to achieving her aim. He was holding the cup in his hand. Now she just had to make him drink.

She raised her own cup in salute and took a sip, stifling a cry of relief when he did the same. He drained half the liquid in one draught, his other hand tightening over hers as he did so, as if he were daring her to pull away. She didn’t move, torn between conflicting emotions of elation and fear. After all, she wasn’t out of danger yet. She still had to distract him, had to give the poppy a chance to work whilst she kept his mind off other activities. From the look on his face, it wasn’t going to be easy.

‘You look worried, my lady.’ His voice sounded even deeper than usual, sending a strangely visceral thrill all through her body.

‘Do I?’

A black eyebrow quirked upwards and she felt a sudden, faint tingle of suspicion. There was something vaguely mocking about the gesture, something that suggested he knew exactly what effect he was having on her, as if he were toying with her even. But that didn’t make sense. He’d followed her into the castle because she’d as good as offered herself to him. He thought she was a loose woman, a wanton, so why would he make fun of her? Unless that was what men did, made fun of their conquests? Though what did it matter as long as he was drinking?

‘There’s no need to worry.’ His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles. ‘The Empress gave her word that no one would be harmed if you surrendered. You’re perfectly safe, I promise you.’

Safe? She tried not to look too incredulous. Nothing about him felt safe. The way his fingers were caressing her skin felt distinctly unsafe!

‘Then I thank you...’ she grasped quickly at the idea his words gave her ‘...though I did wonder why the Empress is offering terms again? Why offer to spare us after what I did?’

‘After you swore an oath of allegiance to her enemy, you mean?’

‘Yes.’ She gritted her teeth at the accusation. ‘I thought that she’d want to punish me. Isn’t she angry?’

‘Given your father’s loyalty to her cause, she was mostly surprised. But she has fond memories of him and would prefer to spare you for his sake.’ His expression shifted slightly. ‘As would I.’

‘You?’ She gaped in surprise. ‘You knew my father?’

‘I met him on a few occasions at the Empress’s court, yes. We even fought side by side at the Battle of Lincoln. He was a good man. Loyal.’

She didn’t answer at first, struck with a familiar pang of guilt. If Lothar was trying to rebuke her, to remind her of just how badly she’d betrayed her father’s ideals, then he needn’t have bothered. She didn’t need reminding. She lived with the consequences of her disloyalty every day.

‘If he knew what I’d done, he’d be furious.’ She answered the accusation before it came.

‘Then why did you do it?’

‘Why did I swear allegiance to the man who’d just killed my father, you mean?’

The eyebrow quirked even higher. ‘Yes.’

She drew a deep, faltering breath. This wasn’t what she wanted to talk about, not at all. She didn’t want to talk about her father, or politics, or any of the reasons why she’d betrayed the Empress. Her feelings on the subject were still too painful, too raw. She’d made her choice when she’d made her bargain with Stephen, and there was no going back on any of it now. But at least they were talking. Lothar was still holding one of her hands, though he wasn’t stroking the knuckles any more. He seemed intent upon what she was saying instead, as if he were genuinely interested in what her motivation had been. Strangely enough she didn’t feel frightened any longer. He wasn’t a statue or an enemy any more. He was a man who’d fought alongside her father, someone she could talk to about him, even if she probably shouldn’t... But perhaps she could tell Lothar part of the truth. She wanted to, she realised, wanted to talk about her father to someone who’d known him. If she could make a man like Lothar understand what she’d done, then perhaps it wouldn’t seem so bad any more. Perhaps if he understood, then he might even forgive her—and if he could, then perhaps she could start to forgive herself, too...

Chapter Five

Juliana straightened her shoulders, trying to look Lothar square in the eye, though with his immense height she had to reach up on her tiptoes.

‘You know that King Stephen laid siege to us nine months ago?’

He nodded. ‘There were a number of sieges at the time, otherwise the Empress would have sent reinforcements.’

‘That’s what my father said. He always defended her, no matter how bad the situation became, but the truth was that we weren’t prepared for a siege. My father...’ she hesitated, searching for a way to explain ‘...had other things on his mind. We held out for three months, but it was no use. Our only choices were to starve, fight or surrender. Father decided to ride out and meet Stephen in battle.’

‘He died like a true soldier.’

‘Is that what you heard?’

‘Yes.’ Dark brows snapped together. ‘Isn’t that what happened?’

‘No.’ She shook her head, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. ‘He was injured and taken prisoner, but he never recovered.’

His grip on her hand tightened. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I surrendered because I didn’t want to lose anyone else. I didn’t have a choice.’

‘What about your oath of allegiance? Surely you had a choice there?’

She flinched. There was no way to explain that, not without telling him the whole truth anyway, and she couldn’t do that. But she had to offer some reason, no matter how bad it sounded.

‘I’d already lost my father. I didn’t want to lose my home and position, too.’

A shadow crossed his face. ‘You mean you swore allegiance to Stephen just so you could remain chatelaine?’

‘Yes.’ She wrenched her hand away, stung by the contempt in his voice. She couldn’t blame him for thinking the worst of her, even if, for some reason, she didn’t want him to. He actually sounded disappointed—as if he had any right to judge her or whomever she chose to give her allegiance to! She racked her brains, dredging up every argument she’d used to convince herself of the validity of Stephen’s claim.

‘And I support him because I want the war to be over. Stephen’s a crowned king. He can bring peace.’

‘He’s a usurper.’ Lothar’s tone was implacable. ‘King Henry named his daughter Matilda as his heir.’

‘Stephen has royal blood, too. They’re cousins.’

‘He stole the crown.’

‘Because Matilda wasn’t in the country to claim it! It took her four years even to cross the Channel after King Henry died. England needed a ruler and Stephen was here!’

‘She had to deal with Normandy first. Not to mention that she was with child when her father died. Absence doesn’t lessen her claim.’

‘Stephen’s an honourable man.’

‘Honourable?’ Lothar’s voice positively dripped with disgust. ‘When Henry was alive Stephen swore an oath to accept her as Queen. Twice.’

‘Maybe he was coerced.’

‘Maybe he’s a liar.’

‘He can still bring peace! It’s Matilda who keeps the war going. If she’d go back to Anjou, then we could have peace again. Isn’t that more important than her claim?’

‘Your father didn’t think so.’

‘I have a mind of my own!’ She flung her cup to the floor in frustration, clenching her fists as the metal clattered loudly across the flagstones. He was infuriating, actually seeming to get calmer the more furious she became. How dare he sound so smug, as if it were all so simple, as if all the choices she’d had to make over the past six months had been easy!

‘I can see that.’

She stiffened at once. Her father had always taken pride in having a daughter who could think for herself, but she knew most men were less tolerant. She knew what they called her, too. A virago. A shrew. Unnatural, unladylike, unsuitable for marriage. Was that what Lothar thought, too? Not that it mattered, she reminded herself. She didn’t care what he thought of her. If her display of temper had changed his mind about her feminine charms, then so much the better. He’d already drunk the wine. There was no need for him to find her attractive any more. Even if the thought made her feel strangely crestfallen.

‘Do you think I should agree with my father just because I’m a woman?’ She narrowed her eyes accusingly.

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘On the contrary. I serve the Empress, my lady, I’ve no problem with women thinking for themselves.’ His voice took on a husky undertone as he took a step closer towards her. ‘Or with them taking command.’

‘Wh-what do you mean?’ she stammered, feeling alarmingly out of her depth all of a sudden. She’d been braced for another argument, ready for him to call her an unnatural female, but he was acting as if he still wanted her, as if he found the idea of a woman in command appealing. Not that she felt very commanding at that moment.

‘I followed you here when you asked me to, didn’t I?’

‘Yes, but...’

‘So, now that I’m here, why don’t you tell me what you want from me?’

‘What I want?’

He stopped a hair’s breadth away from her, his voice soft as a caress. ‘As I told you, my lady, I’m just a soldier. I’m only here to serve.’

She heard a strangled sound emerge from her own throat, though words themselves seemed beyond her. She had no idea what he meant by serve her, though if the tone of his voice were anything to go by, it wasn’t something that a lady ought to be doing... Why wasn’t the poppy working yet? She’d given him enough to fell an ordinary-sized man twice over! How could he still be standing?

He coiled a strand of damp hair around his fingers, using it to tug her face gently upwards. ‘Or you could just show me what you want?’

She dropped her gaze to hide her confusion, though unfortunately that only brought it level with his mouth. Show him what? Whatever it was, she’d probably only have to play along for a few minutes at most, but what did he expect her to do? Was she supposed to kiss him? To touch him? She wouldn’t know where to start! He was threading his fingers through her hair. Did he expect her to do the same? Not that his shorter style allowed quite the same scope. Perhaps she ought to caress his cheek instead?

She peeked up again, searching for some clue on his face, just in time to see a quickly concealed look of amusement.

Amusement! She felt a jolt, suspicion turning to certainty in an instant. He was laughing at her, mocking her pitiful attempt at seduction with a pretence of his own! Suddenly she wished there were a hole she could crawl into. All this time she thought she’d been leading him on, foolishly believing that he was attracted to her, when in fact the very reverse was true. He’d been pretending, too, enjoying her discomfort, letting her make a fool of herself while he simply enjoyed her performance, so arrogantly confident about her surrender that it probably hadn’t even occurred to him that she might have an ulterior motive for inviting him inside the castle! Well, she could console herself with that at least. In a few moments she’d be the one laughing at him!

‘My lady?’ Grey eyes glinted sardonically. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

Somehow she resisted the temptation to slap the smug look off his face. Bad enough that he was toying with her, but now he was mocking her overtly, too, adding insult to injury, as if he thought she wouldn’t have the nerve to go through with her seduction. Her temper flared at the thought. How dare he doubt her nerve! She wouldn’t back down from a challenge by any man, no matter how intimidating. He could mock her as much as he liked. She’d show him exactly how much nerve she had!

She launched herself forward impulsively, throwing her arms around his neck and her body against his chest with an audible thud as she crushed her mouth against his.

There! She felt a rush of exhilaration as their lips touched and clung. That showed him! It wasn’t so hard to kiss a man after all. All she had to do was press her lips against his and hold them there. A few seconds would surely be enough. There was nothing to it, nothing special or terrifying. It was quite ordinary really...

No sooner had the thought entered her head than she forgot it again, startled by the pressure of his lips as they began to respond, gently and unhurriedly at first, then with a deeper, building intensity. For a few moments, time seemed to stop as she simply stood there, stunned, not knowing how to react, unable to draw back even as his tongue slid its way smoothly between her lips, teasing them open before taking full possession of her mouth.

Then instinct took over. She didn’t think, didn’t give herself a chance to consider as she responded in kind, leaning towards him as he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her so close that she could feel every line of his strong, muscular body. He even felt like a battering ram, she thought in amazement, running her hands over the broad expanse of his shoulder blades. If she’d taken a running leap at him from the far side of the room, he probably wouldn’t have budged. Not that she wanted him to. She didn’t know what she wanted any more. Was she trying to prove something? She couldn’t remember. What had started as a gesture of defiance had turned into something else entirely, though as to what it was...

All she knew was that she didn’t want it to stop. She’d never even imagined a feeling like it before, this hot, trembling sensation deep in the pit of her stomach, an ache and a need and a longing all at the same time.

He groaned against her mouth and she raked her fingers through his hair, kissing him back just as fiercely—fiercer, even—running her tongue along his bottom lip before twining it back around his. Tasting, exploring...

She froze, suddenly aware that he’d stopped moving. He wasn’t kissing her back any more. He was barely even holding her, his hands slackening and then falling from her waist as he took an unsteady step backwards. She raised a hand to her mouth, mortified by her own shameless behaviour, afraid that he was about to mock her again before the truth finally dawned.

The poppy was working.

She let out a ragged breath. How could she have forgotten about the poppy? She’d been so wrapped up in the moment, in the heady feeling of his body and lips against hers, that she seemed to have forgotten everything else, including how a chatelaine ought to behave! It was one thing to pretend to seduce him—quite another to be seduced right back. Now he was swaying precariously in front of her, staring at his feet with a look of such bleary-eyed confusion that she was almost tempted to grab his arms and steady him. Then he looked up again, fixing her with a stare that had nothing remotely mocking about it, and she tried to jump backwards instead.

Too late. She jerked in mid-air as his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

‘What have you done?’ His tone was menacing.

‘Let me go!’ She tried to wrest herself free, but his grip was too tight.

‘The wine, what was in it?’

‘I said, let me go!’

‘What was in it?’ He tugged her roughly back against him, against the same chest she’d flung herself at just a few moments before, though there was nothing welcoming about it now. They seemed to have gone from one extreme of emotion to the other.

‘Poppy.’

‘Poison?’

‘A sleeping draught.’

‘You drugged me?’

‘Yes.’ She felt an unexpected stab of guilt. ‘But don’t worry. The effects will wear off by tomorrow.’

He staggered and she caught hold of his arms. No matter what had just happened between them, she didn’t want him to fall and hurt himself. Not that she cared, she told herself, but he was no good to her injured. Even if, with the full weight of him in her arms, she didn’t know which of them was in more danger.

She stumbled down with him to the floor, inwardly rebuking herself for her own lack of foresight. She ought to have done this next to something soft for him to fall on to. Her plan had worked, and yet ironically she’d managed to trap herself beneath him at the same time. She wriggled furiously, struck by the uncomfortable impression that she was behaving even more shamelessly now than before. His whole body was pressed down on top of hers, leaving little to the imagination. Definitely not a position a lady ought to find herself in.

She gave a push born of desperation and finally managed to half-drag, half-roll herself away. Then she lay on the floor at his side, panting and breathless, studying his face with a confusing mixture of triumph and trepidation. But at least her plan had succeeded. They could discuss his surrender tomorrow, though before that happened, she’d better make sure he was tied up tight. After what she’d just done, the last thing she wanted was for him to escape. If he’d thought badly of her before, she dreaded to imagine what he’d think of her when he woke up.

She reached out and trailed a finger along the jagged line of his scar. It made him look dangerous and vulnerable at the same time—as it turned out he was. She’d bested him for the time being, but for how long? She bit her lip, struck again by the sheer hulking size of him, trying to fight off the discomforting feeling that she’d just made an equally huge mistake.

Chapter Six

It was dark when he woke.

Lothar groped his way back to consciousness, opening his eyelids and wincing as a dull pain assailed the back of his eyeballs. Drugged. He’d been drugged. He felt groggy and leaden and stiff all over, the way other men claimed they felt after a night spent drinking. Now he knew what they meant—something else he could blame Lady Juliana for.

Lady Juliana. He swore under his breath. Clearly he’d misjudged the woman. He’d known that she’d been plotting something, that she’d wanted to capture him, but he’d followed her anyway, into the hall where she’d offered him some wine...

What had he been thinking? He must have been mad, following her simply because he’d wanted to help her. Because of her father? Yes and no. Yes, because he’d valued her father’s friendship, no, because there was something else about her as well, some other enticement that had lured him over the drawbridge against his own better judgement. It hadn’t just been attraction, though that had definitely been a big part of it. If he didn’t know better, he would have said he’d felt worried about her...

Felt?

He scowled so ferociously that a stab of pain lanced through his head and down his spine. Felt? He’d felt worried? Since when did he feel things? He’d spent years not feeling. He didn’t want to feel—not ever! Then again, he hadn’t wanted any wine either and look what had happened there. He’d broken one of his own rules by drinking it, letting himself be persuaded by a pair of familiar green eyes in a deceptively innocent face. He had to hand it to her—if he weren’t so livid with rage, at himself as well as at her, he might have been impressed. She’d managed to trick and to capture him, succeeding where the rest of Stephen’s army had failed. He’d barely taken his eyes off her since they’d entered the bailey, but whatever she’d slipped into his drink had certainly been potent. Not to mention long-lasting. Judging by the darkness it was night-time already, the only illumination provided by a few thin slivers of moonlight filtering in through gaps in the window shutters.

Window shutters? He strained his eyes to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. So he wasn’t in a dungeon, then. On the contrary, he was lying on something that felt suspiciously like a mattress. Not bad for a prison, though something about his position felt peculiar. He tried to stretch out, only to find that he couldn’t, and not just because of the numbness in his limbs either. By the feel of it, his wrists and ankles were tied together, bound up tightly with rope.

He paused for a moment, considering what to do next, then let loose a volley of obscenities, not bothering to keep his voice down. If Lady Juliana were close by, he hoped she could hear him. They were the very least he intended to say to her. He supposed he ought to be grateful that she hadn’t gagged him as well, but right now, gratitude was the very last emotion he was feeling. If—when—he got out of this, he’d find a way to pay her back in kind!

A swell of desire coursed through him, the more potent for being so unexpected, bringing his tirade to an abrupt end as the thought of tying her up brought to mind a very different scenario, not to mention a far different response to the one he’d anticipated. He was still furious with her and yet his mind was beset by a confusing array of impressions—the feeling of velvety soft lips against his, of a supple body in his embrace, of spiralling tendrils of hair in his fingertips and the soft pant of breath on his neck. What the hell?

He heaved at his bindings, venting two very different types of frustration, but they held tight. Whatever she’d given him must have been even more powerful than he’d thought, making both his thoughts and senses run riot. The image of her in his arms was surprisingly detailed, right down to the silvery sparkle of raindrops in her hair, and so vivid that it seemed less like a dream than a memory, though it couldn’t be. In which case, what had happened? He dragged himself up to a sitting position, straining his memory for clues. His thoughts were still hazy, but he had a vague recollection of enjoying her company, even of feeling sympathy when she’d talked about her father. She’d argued, too, squaring up to him over the question of Stephen versus Matilda with a spiritedness that had taken him by surprise. Not many people ever dared to argue with him, and the fact that she hadn’t been intimidated—not enough to back down anyway—had been oddly appealing. His desire for her had certainly been real, more real than anything he’d experienced in a long time, as if there were more behind it than just a physical response, though as to what he’d done about it...

He shook his head in disbelief. No. Even if he had been enjoying her pretence of seduction—a little too much, perhaps—he would never have taken advantage of her in that way. He’d never touched any woman who hadn’t wanted him to and he refused to believe that any drug would have affected his behaviour so completely. The very idea was abhorrent. He wouldn’t have touched her, wouldn’t have kissed her, not unless... He blinked as another, even more surprising idea popped into his head. Not unless she’d thrown herself at him first...

He gave a hollow laugh, rubbing his wrists together behind his back in an effort to work his fingers loose. Now he was definitely imagining things. The last thing she would have done was throw herself at him, more’s the pity. The thought of finding out what those cherry-red lips tasted like was certainly tempting, but she was unlikely ever to offer him the chance. His current situation was proof enough of that.

He’d barely reached the conclusion before the door opened and the woman herself appeared, bearing a beeswax candle in one hand and a wooden cup in the other.

‘Lady Juliana.’ His lip curled at the sight of her. ‘Good of you to remember me.’

‘It would be hard to forget with all the noise you were making.’ She put the candle down on a coffer, though she didn’t look at him. ‘Your men can probably hear you on the other side of the moat.’

She kept her eyes cast downwards as she approached the bed, walking so slowly that he would have assumed she was doing it on purpose to taunt him if she weren’t so obviously exhausted. She looked even more tired than she had before, still dressed in the same nondescript brown tunic she’d been wearing in the rain, though she’d covered her hair with a cream-coloured headdress that only made the rings around her eyes look larger and darker by comparison, almost like bruises. Even so, the subtle sway of her hips was causing a definite physical response in his body. Damn it, what was the matter with him?

He dragged his gaze away from her hips and back towards the window. If he wasn’t mistaken, the thin sliver of sky between the shutters appeared to be lighter than before. Hadn’t she slept all night, then?

‘Your hospitality’s somewhat lacking, my lady.’ He pushed an unwonted flicker of concern aside, glaring at her instead.

‘Then you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve brought you some ale. Poppy makes you thirsty.’

His scowl deepened ferociously. That was true. His throat felt red raw, though the thought of accepting another drink from her gave him definite pause.

‘You’ll have to forgive me being suspicious.’

‘Why would I drug you again? You’re already tied up.’

‘Really? I’d forgotten.’

She gave a weary-looking shrug. ‘You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to.’

He shot her a look that would have made grown men quail, though she was too busy stifling a yawn to notice. The sight made him doubly angry. Bad enough that he was her prisoner—she didn’t have to act as if he were an inconvenience as well! Even if she had been pacing the battlements all night, she could at least have the decency to pay him a little more attention.

‘How do you expect me to drink when I’m tied up?’ he challenged her.

‘Here.’

She held the cup to his lips, bending at the waist and stretching her arms out in an apparent attempt to keep the rest of her body as far away from the bed as possible. If it hadn’t been for his own position he might have found such a bizarre posture amusing, though as it was he was too thirsty to care. After a moment’s hesitation he drank, keeping his eyes on her face the whole time, though she kept her own studiously averted, blinking so rapidly it looked as if she were struggling to stay awake.

‘Am I keeping you up?’ He moved his mouth away, making his tone as scathing as possible. ‘Perhaps you need to go to bed, my lady.’

‘I can’t.’ She put the cup to one side with a look of relief. ‘You’re in it.’

‘What?’

He was so surprised that for a moment he actually forgot to scowl. Instead he looked around, reappraising the room in the flickering candlelight, finally noticing the tapestries on the walls and the small trinket boxes set on a table by the bed. Definitely not a prison, but what on earth was she doing, putting him in her bedchamber? He wasn’t easily shocked, but he could only imagine two types of woman who would drug a man and then tie him up in their bed—ones who were either extremely innocent or extremely experienced. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t sure which alarmed him more.

‘This is your chamber?’

‘Yes. I had my men carry you up. I thought you’d be more comfortable here.’

‘Comfortable? Tied up?’

‘Apart from that.’

He let out a shout of laughter, anger and shock turning to incredulity. ‘Your father always said you were one of a kind. I’m starting to think he was right.’

‘What do you mean?’ Her eyes shot to his face, meeting his for the first time since she’d entered. ‘My father told you about me?’

‘He said he had a flame-headed firebrand for a daughter. Foolishly I thought he was exaggerating.’

‘Truly? He said that?’

He narrowed his gaze, struck by the flicker of uncertainty in hers. Apparently what her father had said about her really mattered, as if she hadn’t known how he’d felt. Strange, but he’d had the impression they were close. Or had been anyway...

‘Something like that. I forget the exact words.’

‘Oh.’ Her expression wavered. ‘Did he say it like it was a bad thing?’

‘A bad thing?’ The question took him by surprise. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that...’

He leaned back against the wall, stalling for time as he wondered what exactly he would say. Generally he favoured the truth, no matter how blunt, but this was hardly the time for discussing her father’s fears for her future. He certainly wasn’t in any position to offer advice. Even if he wasn’t tied up, he was the last person in the world to talk to about any kind of paternal relationship.

‘He said he’d like to introduce us one day.’ That was true, he recalled with a jolt of surprise, though as to why William had said it, he couldn’t remember.

Her mouth dropped open. ‘You mean you were actually friends with him?’

‘For my part, yes. I told you we fought together at Lincoln, but we spent a lot of time on the march talking, too. He had a way of making people talk. He was one of the cleverest men I ever met.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘I should have known better than to underestimate his daughter. I won’t make the same mistake twice.’

She studied him intently for a moment as if considering whether or not to ask something else, before drawing up a stool.

‘Are you hungry? We only have pottage, but I can ask one of the guards to fetch you some if you want?’

He had to stop himself from laughing again. Of all the questions he’d anticipated, that hadn’t been one of them. She was certainly one of a kind. Now that she’d taken him prisoner, she seemed more concerned with his well-being than in interrogating or making any demands of him. She looked as if she’d rather close her eyes and go to sleep instead, though if the hour were really as late, or as early, as he suspected, then it wasn’t long until dawn. Which meant that they were almost out of time. If he were going to convince her to surrender, then he had to hurry.

‘You haven’t taken many men captive, I presume?’

‘Why?’ Her expression turned guarded. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s not usual to care so much about your prisoner’s comfort.’

‘Oh... No, I’ve never taken anyone prisoner before.’

‘Then I’m honoured to be your first.’ He was gratified to see a faint blush spread across her cheeks. She’d noticed that sarcasm at least. ‘So what are we doing here, my lady?’

‘I’d like to talk.’

‘Isn’t that what we were doing yesterday?’

‘What do you mean?’ Her eyes jumped to his again, the look of exhaustion in them replaced by one of sheer, sudden panic.

He arched an eyebrow, surprised by such an extreme reaction. ‘You made quite a good defence of Stephen, as I recall.’

‘Oh.’ The panic receded slightly. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Was there something else?’

‘No! We talked, that’s all.’

‘Then what do you want from me, my lady?’

He started, struck by the sudden conviction that he’d said those words before and recently. Judging by the vibrant shade of Lady Juliana’s cheeks, she remembered them, too. Her skin was almost the same colour as her hair, as if she were embarrassed about something, but what? Just what exactly had happened between them? Surely none of the things he thought he remembered...

‘I want you to tell your soldiers to go.’ Her voice shook slightly.

‘Mmm?’ He was so busy trying to remember that he barely paid any attention to her words. ‘Just like that?’

‘Yes. Sir Guian’s, too. Tell them they have until noon to pack up and leave.’

‘Or?’

‘Or there’ll be consequences.’

‘Such as?’

‘Consequences!’

She looked so fierce that his lips twitched involuntarily. ‘You’ll need to be a bit more specific.’

‘It’s not funny!’

‘No.’

‘No, it’s not funny?’

‘No, it’s not and, no, I won’t do it. Just no.’

‘But you haven’t even considered it!’

‘I don’t need to. No.’

‘Stop saying no!’

‘Then I decline.’

‘You might change your mind when you’re hanging by your feet from the battlements!’

‘Ah.’ He gave a tight smile. There it was at last, the threat he’d been waiting for. He’d been starting to wonder if she’d even thought of one. ‘It might, though it wouldn’t make any difference. My men have their orders already.’

The colour seeped from her face in an instant. ‘What orders?’

‘The ones I gave them before we met on the drawbridge. I told you I intended to capture Haword today, though I admit this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.’

‘You can still countermand the order.’

‘I could, but it might look a little coerced if I’m hanging from the battlements.’

‘You don’t think your men will disobey orders to save you?’

‘I think they know what will happen to them if they do. I don’t tolerate disobedience, my lady. Not for any reason.’

‘Not even to save your life?’

‘Those are my rules. What kind of commander would I be if I changed them simply to save myself?’

‘I’ll tell Sir Guian, then.’ She sounded desperate this time. ‘He’ll call off the attack. He never wanted to fight anyway.’

‘True, but I think he’d enjoy the spectacle of me hanging by my feet too much to do anything to stop it. Besides, my men don’t take orders from anyone else. With or without Sir Guian’s permission, they’re coming.’

She shot to her feet so quickly that her stool toppled backwards, landing with a clatter on the floorboards. There were no rushes, he noticed, something else they must have run out of. After four months of siege, it appeared that both castle and chatelaine were reaching the end of their tether. He could see tension in every line of her body, as if she might snap at any moment.

‘What difference would it make even if they did retreat?’ He kept on pushing, hardening his heart against the bizarre urge to offer comfort instead. ‘You’d only buy yourself a few days, a week at the most, before the Empress sends them back again.’

‘Maybe that’s all I need.’

It was only a murmur, but enough to make his brows snap together at once. Was that why she was so determined to hold out then, because she was waiting for reinforcements? The last he’d heard, Stephen’s forces had been busy fortifying coastal defences against the threat of Angevin landings, but perhaps she knew something he didn’t. If Stephen were heading back into Herefordshire, then it made capturing Haword even more vital. In which case, he had to persuade her to surrender now...

‘What’s that?’ She twisted her head at a clamouring sound from outside, the clanking of metal over the dull hum of voices.

‘Take a look.’

He nodded towards the window and she ran towards it, unlatching the shutters and flinging them wide. Even from across the room he could hear her sharp intake of breath.

‘What are they doing?’

‘Hard to say from here, but at a guess I’d say they’re preparing for battle. I’d suggest that your men do the same.’

‘But I don’t want to fight!’

‘Then surrender. My offer still stands.’

She spun around, eyes widening with amazement. ‘You’d forgive me after I drugged you?’

‘Apparently so.’ He surprised himself with the answer. He could forgive her, though mercy alone knew why. ‘Although I think we can keep that part between ourselves.’

She stared at him mutely for a few seconds, her expression veering between defiance and uncertainty, before she reached into the folds of her gown and drew out a slim, though still lethal-looking dagger.

‘No.’ Her face took on a look of resolve. ‘I’m the chatelaine and this is still my castle. We’re going to the battlements.’

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